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Disclaimer:
This page is an unofficial site that exists only for the fun of it. All characters and situations from the television show "The Man from U.N.C.L.E." are property of Norman Felton and Warner Bros. Nothing ill is intended by this use of any television characters in these amateur efforts. Any fiction linked to these pages is the intellectual property of the amateur author who created it and is not presented here for profit.

Classification: T for Teen (or used to be PG-13 or so)

Author's Notes: Only a handful of agents went through Survival School with
better marks. Why does everyone seem to think she's a THRUSH mole when
no one questioned the others?

Pairing: Unknown

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Napoleon entered his office the next day to find a single outstanding deep indigo Dutch
Iris in a crystal bud vase and a thank you note neatly on the corner of his desk.
He cocked an eyebrow at his partner who actually smiled.

“She said your information was excellent and while it would be a week before
the drapes are delivered, they are exactly as she desired them.” This was accompanied by
a delicate snort. “Drapes.”

Napoleon smiled at that. Illya’s apartment was almost as Spartan as his
outlook on life could be. Food was fuel, an apartment was someplace to be between assignments
and interesting things going on in R&D; draperies for the windows were decadent and
bourgeois when dime store curtains would do as well. Illya only had two windows
to worry about in his apartment. Napoleon suspected that bricks over the one in his
bedroom would have suited him just as well, eliminating a point of intrusion.

“Some of us like the view from our windows, but don’t necessarily want to
look at it all the time.”

“Some of you are decadent, capitalist …”

“… bourgeois, rising on the backs of the downtrodden proletariat,”
Cheri’s lighter voice finished the sentence, if not necessarily his teasing thoughts.

“Da,” he agreed, mentally frowning at himself for playing along.

Cheri’s chuckle was almost contagious. “Then again, when you have floor to
ceiling windows some artist wanted for good Eastern morning light, you have to do
something, and wasting perfectly good sheets on a window is not my idea of wonderful. Good
morning, gentlemen. What’s on the agenda for today?”

Napoleon answered the intercom, which answered Cheri’s question. Mr.
Waverly’s secretary requested their presence in Waverly’s office.

Cheri followed her supervisors into the deep carpeted office. It was high tech
and something of a let down at the same time. Nothing of this showed in her face as
she took a seat slightly away from Napoleon and Illya who were both all business.
Waverly briefly outlined odd sightings on the Maine coast. The small, abandoned town of
Innsmouth was the sight of some strange lights in the sky, odd malodorous clouds
that rolled across the countryside heading inland and a great deal of truck activity.
All of this pointed to something that needed investigating.

“It should not be too difficult to determine whether THRUSH is involved. Do
not hesitate to call for back up if you find the need, gentlemen. The natives are reclusive
in this area, and sometimes hostile.”

As they walked back to the office with the two men discussing the assignment,
Cheri was very silent. As the rookie on the case, this was not unusual. On the other hand,
Illya noticed what he thought was a look of concern.

“Problem?” he asked.

“Uhm, probably not. I probably just read too much weird fiction.”

That got a look of enquiry from Napoleon. “Weird fiction?”

“Lovecraft. Wrote for Weird Tales and other sort of pulp strange fiction
presses in the ‘30’s. A lot of his stuff is set in Maine. I didn’t think there was a
real Innsmouth.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Probably nothing.” The response was too swift and too bright, accompanied
with one of those looks that said ‘I hope.”

Napoleon decided to dig deeper. Not that he thought there was anything to her
concerns. “What did this Lovecraft write?”

“Well, that depended. Specific to Innsmouth: odd South Pacific cults
worshipping ancient inhuman sea deities. Rumors of extreme miscegenation. Sacrifices of various
sorts. The usual.”

“We win?” he asked with a knowing quirk of a grin.

“No.” Her response was matter-of-fact. She met his eyes and then Illya’s
with a shrug and grin of her own. “Like I said, too much weird fiction. Town’s probably
just in an area that’s fished out.” Or not, she added mentally. “So, fly into Bangor
and motor down? Or take the train? Or …”

“Research first, Miss Yuconovich,” the CEO chided gently.

She saluted. “What do you need?”

It was nice having a personal go-for.